a white blank page
by sparklylulz
Summary: "It's not his fault. It's not yours either." She means it too, she knows that they didn't mean to love her, like she didn't mean to love them both back. -Harry/Hermione. Slight AU.


a/n: title from Mumford & Sons. I own nothing but the poorly placed commas.

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**winter****. **

There are footsteps behind her, the quiet crunching of leaves echoing around their safe little bubble, free from prying eyes and dark lords. Harry's footsteps are different than Ron's; he walks with a careful grace, almost afraid of what will happen if he were to make a noise. _(__Ron__'__s __thud __and __fall __heavily__, __like __he __wants __nothing __more __than __the __world __to __know __he__'__s __there__.) _

Harry's long frame sinks down next to her, his legs crossed easily, his sweater is much too big for him, (_wishful __thinking __on __Mrs__. __Weasley__'__s __part__, __probably__)_, and she wonders how warm it must be.

Sometimes she wishes she could curl into this skinny, messy boy and never leave again, because the warmth in his heart had to equal that of a supernova.

"I hate winter." She whispers, the tendrils of her hair falling over her shoulders, staring at the snow in mild distaste.

It's not an uncomfortable silence that follows her declaration, instead he seems to be thinking, green eyes crinkled at the corners. Occasionally it strikes her how much he grew up - that boy from her first train ride, the one who tried to tackle a mountain troll for her. Somewhere in between the fights with deadly creatures and end of year exams he had spiraled into this man sitting next to her, and her heart aches for him - for being _the __Boy __Who __Lived_, he never really got much of a chance to be a boy.

"I used to hate it, mostly because my cupboard was drafty, and I spent more time freezing than sleeping." It's hard for him to vocalize a lot of his childhood, she knows this, it had made Ron's exclamation and desertion that much more painful.

She lays a hand over his and takes in the heat greedily before her slight shivers in the wind cause him to pull his arm up and drape it slowly over her shoulders. Harry's hands always hesitate before touching her, like she'll burn him with her flesh, and even in the dead of winter it still does.

"You need to sleep, Hermione." He says evenly, turning his gaze to her face, evidence of grief still streaking her cheeks.

She lays her head on his shoulder, "Just don't let me go." Her eyes flutter closed and he hums a forgotten tune in her ear, and when she's asleep he conjures a blanket and spreads it over them.

"_I __won__'__t__,_" haunts her dreams and she wakes up the next morning warm and comfortable.

**spring****.**

Ron comes back and things should be easier, the fire in his heart shouldn't rage anymore for her. _Just __a __sister__, __just __a __sister__. _He twists his hands in his pockets, watching them embrace in a panic-stricken hallway. This hell is the last place there should be love and hope; he thinks of Tonks and Lupin and his mother and father and he wonders if anyone will ever forgive him for surviving, because he won't. He _can__'__t_.

She looks so blissfully taken by surprise he can't bring himself to ask her what he meant to her, he who had always been there, always on the outside, he who had never yelled at her over foreign quidditch stars or pet rats. He who had loved her passionately, unwaveringly, and unrequitedly for years.

The prospect of death later isn't horrible - he's tried not to leave too many loose ends. He still doesn't count on her footsteps behind his. Though he's concealed by the invisibility cloak she's not the cleverest witch of her age just because she reads well and knows how to flourish a wand properly.

"I could pick out your footfalls anywhere, Harry Potter." She sighs, and he pulls at the fabric over his head and stares at her guiltily.

"Were you really going to leave without saying goodbye?" Her face is strong, but her voice wavers, and he knows it's not fair that she's constantly been pulled in two different directions. He's always known there was one she couldn't follow.

He kicks a nearby rock, "You know I've never been great at goodbyes." _I__'__ve __never __gotten __the __chance __to __say __them_.

She throws herself against him in both anger and fear, clinging to the warmth of his jacket and arms and breath. "I love you, Harry." She doesn't have to elaborate her gratitude or need a long sappy answer.

He presses his nose into her hair gently, _"__You __too__, __Hermione__. __Always__."_ is muffled, but his mind swims with images of Snape and his mother and lost love and his heart aches.

Releasing her is both the easiest and hardest he's ever had to do. He knows he letting her go to a life that only could have existed in a different universe where he wasn't the Chosen One and she wasn't the love of his best friend's life.

She doesn't cry when he leaves her alone in a destroyed corridor, with nothing more than a whispered truth and heavy heart. When Ron asks where she's been she lies, and decides she's a horribly selfish person for not giving anyone else the chance to say goodbye.

**summer****. **

There's a celebration at the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's one year anniversary, and it's the first time the Golden Trio has been seen together in sometime. Harry didn't mean to drift, but somehow he ends up on the periphery. Ron and Hermione are all smiles and hugs and two out of the three pointedly don't look each other in the eye.

He eventually breaks away from the house full of redheads, (forever one twin less), pausing to say hello to Andromeda and Teddy before slipping into the back garden. A gnome runs by his feet, and he suppresses a smile.

He stumbles upon her though soon after, (_she__'__s __always __there__, __always)_, her hair shining in the moonlight.

"Why have you been avoiding me, Harry?" She doesn't lead in with niceties, because even if he saved her and the wizarding world, he doesn't deserve niceties.

He sighs, "You know why, Hermione." He glances at her ring finger, the sight of the modest diamond causing his throat to constrict painfully.

"It's not his fault. It's not yours either." She means it too, she knows that they didn't mean to love her, like she didn't mean to love them both back.

Loving two people splits her in half and she doesn't even know who she is anymore, but she won't admit this to him.

"Sometimes I think it would have been easier if I'd died." He admits, shoving his hands into his pockets, and she turns almost forcefully to look at him with incredulity.

"How can you say that? After Fred? After Remus and Tonks? After everyone who gave their lives willingly for _you_, so you could win-"

"They shouldn't have died for me! I know, _I __know_, it's my fault, Hermione." He sucks a deep breath in and looks back up to her, slightly calmer, "I know it's cowardly to wish I had died when so many others did, but the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin before Gryffindor for a reason."

Her eyes flash dangerously, "You are not a coward, an idiot, but not a coward. And I won't stand here and let you pretend your death would have been any easier on any of us. Sometimes I want to slap you until you understand that we all wore our armor into battle and fought next to you for a _reason_, that we all would have died beside you as the greatest honor, not because you were The Chosen One, but because you were _Harry_."

She pushes past him back towards the party after her words fall out, and he watches after her, thinking that she's ten times braver than him. Even if she didn't die for him, he knows she still would - she'd march into death with her head held high and her conscious eased.

**fall****. **

Grimmauld Place becomes his home slowly, after a lot of cleaning on both his and Kreature's part. Sometimes Kreature's grumpy attitude makes him long for Dobby and his knobbly socks and squeaky voice, and the guilt threatens to drown him. He withdraws from public life, focusing all his efforts into making Sirius' childhood home a new place.

There's a knock at the door and Kreature scuttles to answer it. Harry knows who it'll be before she makes her way into the kitchen, unwrapping her scarf quickly.

"Hey." He manages, standing slowly, heading to the stove to put the kettle on, anything to keep his hands busy - hands he's afraid he won't be able to keep from straying if she comes too close.

"Hi." Her reply is breathless, she probably dashed here from work, she walks over to kiss him on the cheek and he twists so that their mouths meet. It's wrong, and it's not the first time since August this has happened, but he leans into her hungrily.

When they break apart she blushes and he looks back to the stove.

"We can't keep doing this, Hermione. You can't go home to him six days out of the week and me the other one." Harry sighs, hands gripping the edge of the sink tightly.

"That's the way it's always been, Harry. We all know it, even Ron does somewhere inside him. What was I supposed to do? You gave me an impossible choice, so I didn't choose." She's honest and he winces briefly. "We were all broken by the war, and I couldn't break us any further."

He knows this, he knows it isn't a competition, it's an understanding. He loved her first, but Ron loved her openly. He can't blame her, though he thinks to his empty bedroom, one side of the closet taken up with his shirts, one side of the bed crumpled, no traces of anyone else.

"We could run away," he breathes into her hair later that night in bed, arms wrapped around her exposed body, "somewhere no one would recognize us. I could be a photographer and you could be a writer. We could be happy."

"But what about Ron? He doesn't deserve us to leave him." Her words echo in his mind and he rolls over.

"I know. But it's nice to dream."

She doesn't reply.

**winter ****ii****.**

"I still hate winter." She greets him outside the Leaky Cauldron, following him into the crowded and warm pub. Her finger is remarkably bare.

He laughs a little and pulls out a chair for her at their usual table, "Yeah, well so do I considering someone keeps stealing all my sweaters."

She gives him a mischievous grin and turns to the menu without addressing his accusations, before they're interrupted by the bustling of two people behind them. They look up and grin.

"Hey, mate." Harry smiles to Ron, and Hermione waves up at Luna.

"Hey, sorry it took us so long, George and I had an explosion at the shop, but we got it sorted in the end." Luna sits next to him, her long hair pulled into a loose bun, she looks less like the young girl from Hogwarts, though radishes still dangle from her ears.

Their weekly get togethers almost always end in Luna spouting conspiracy theories, Ron drunkenly laughing with Harry, and Hermione rolling her eyes. It's easy, this life, easy to watch Ron go home with someone else.

"We did okay, didn't we?" Harry asks her later, after their bodies are pressed together in bed, his arms warm against her naturally cold skin.

"For what we were given? Yes, I think we did." She hums back, pressing her mouth to his shoulder. He looks down at her and smiles.

"Do you think someday we could be like Bill and Fleur? Nice house, beautiful kids?" _Do __you __think __we __can __push __past __all __the __heartbreak __and __make __a __new __life__?_ Her eyes ask him long after her lips stop moving.

Harry blinks, "You don't think I have a nice house?" He mocks and she rolls her eyes again, but then he nods at her.

Sighing into her pale skin, he kisses her gently and smiles.

"Yeah, Hermione, I think we could."


End file.
